The Princess Pendragon
by kweenofalldreams13
Summary: An untold twin wandered the castle, the shame of her father and the magic that had created her haunting her every step.  The affections of a young warlock will certainly complicate things for Princess Abigail.
1. It Begins

**Author's Note:** A break from a lot of my other stuff. I love Merlin, so here we go. No copyright infringement intended. (But I do own all non-canon characters, settings, and plot points)

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><p><strong>It Begins<strong>

Arthur and Abigail Pendragon were born on a Tuesday. Though most mothers in the age lived to bear children for years and years, the stress of birthing twins took her shortly after Arthur, the younger, came to see light. The queen took her husband's hand, and in her last breaths, spoke a wish none would hear but King Uther. After the slow passing of the queen, a young woman, a maid, presumably, stepped into the room. The king nodded solemnly, and the maid attended to the children. She wrapped, them, fed them, and kept them warm. She found that Arthur slept simply and silently, but that Abigail remained awake. Not crying, not wailing, like colicky babies oft did, but sitting, peacefully, with wide eyes set on her caretaker. The maid, named Tamora, smiled down at her.

"You're a special child, aren't you," Tamora whispered, cradling Abigail close. "Your mummy's sent something lovely for you." She kissed the baby's forehead, and, as if by magic, the child promptly fell asleep.

Uther Pendragon believed that his queen Ygraine's death was caused by magical interference with her pregnancy–as twins were something of an anomaly, at least in his eyes–and banished the use of magic in the kingdom henceforth. Strangely, it was the very day that the king made his decree that the maid, Tamora, left her service with the children and disappeared beyond the noble land of Camelot. The twins, being only two years of age when the edict passed, lost their first nurse. Arthur reacted as most young children would at the deprivation of a loved one; with tears and screams and kicks and blatant disappointment. Again Abigail displayed unconventional tendencies, simply waving at Tamora as she made her descent from the castle and continuing her play.

As the children grew older, their interests and personalities deviated largely. Arthur, the prince and heir to the throne as firstborn male, took up a traditional king's habits, practicing swordsmanship and war strategy, finding mates who were much like him, athletic and rugged. Truly Arthur was the gem of his father, and proud was his father to have such a strong, powerful heir. Abigail became sickly, pale and thin by many of her illnesses, and stayed locked within the castle most of the time. She spent hours a day poring over the old books in the royal library, watching the chefs cook, and playing with the birds in the owlery. Uther treasured his daughter as well, but was bewildered by her lifestyle. A princess such as she ought to be seeking suitors, dancing at balls, and enjoying her time with casual sport (not that which the _men_ dominated, of course, but sport nonetheless), thought Uther. Instead, here she was indoors, simply watching and observing. He did notice that she spent a great deal of time visiting the old man Gaius, and this concerned Uther.

"Gaius," addressed Uther tiredly one night during feast, taking him from the general party by the arm. "Old friend, you know that your service in the castle is a grand gift to me and the whole of the kingdom. I must inquire of you, what intentions have you with my young daughter Abigail?" The old man chuckled lightly, eyes twinkling at the king's misunderstanding.

"Why, my king, Princess Abigail is a fascinating young woman. My only intention with her is friendship, nothing more. She teaches me many things, for she is wise beyond her years. Perhaps wiser than I," he added, smiling. King Uther took Gaius' word for value, and nodded. "Your Highness, I advise you return to your feast. Your guests beg entertainment, you see." He gestured to the prince of some far south nation, whose imperious eyes had grown glazed and lazy in his absence and an excess of mead.

"But where will you go? The feast is not yet over," replied Uther, watching Gaius ascend one of the staircases.

"Why, to my bearings, Your Highness. It is late, and I am very old, you see. Good night, my lord!"

So Uther returned to the feast, more puzzled than ever before as he watched his daughter perform a lilting melody on the flute, an instrument he hadn't known she enjoyed, slowly sending the foreign prince to slumber in his plate of caviar.

Upon Arthur and Abigail's twentieth birthday, King Uther called forth a celebration of biblical proportions, inviting dozens of the prettiest unmarried lasses and strongest, most honorable unmarried fellows in the land for each of his children. Arthur took to the plan immediately, surrounding himself and his friends with the masses of young women and sharing idle conversation with them. And meanwhile, as the male suitors attended Abigail, she simply presented them with more glasses of wine and mead until they desisted, succumbing to drunken exhaustion.

She made her way up the tower to see Gaius again, to have peace from the rabble in the main hall. She tapped thrice on his door, and entered. Gaius smiled, having a seat on his stool and leafing through an old, unfamiliar book. Abigail frowned and closed the door behind her.

"What book is that?" she inquired.

"Alas, princess, I have been ordered not to share the contents of the book with anyone, lest I fall in ill health for my disobedience," he chortled, closing it and setting it in a drawer. "Now, why have you come to visit an old man on the night of your birthday? I don't suppose Prince Arthur is making any late night visits to silly old professors as well, is he?" Abigail rolled her eyes with an audible scoff.

"No. My brother is simple, he needs only guffawing cronies and swarms of willing women to entertain himself." Gaius tutted, shaking his head.

"Prince Arthur has redeeming qualities, does he not? He is strong, certainly, a worthy heir to the throne, determined, unfaltering in his actions, and especially confident in his affairs. He seeks only to please the king in becoming a good king himself." Abigail, leaned her head back in exasperation; did no one see Arthur's flaws as well as his strengths as she did?

"Yes," she groaned, "but he is also headstrong, impulsive, crude, and brimming with overconfidence. He's made himself excellent nemeses in leaders of far-off lands, insulted nearly every diplomat he's ever contacted, and gotten himself into scrapes I'd never think he'd escape from."

"Ah," said Gaius, "but he has escaped from them, has he not?"

"I suppose, but–"

"Then you oughtn't be far so quick to judge, ought you, princess? It is true, your brother possesses qualities both detrimental and beneficial, but do not forget, you do as well. You are wise, princess, but fearful and perhaps too cautious. Prince Arthur often acts without thought, but you often think without action. Perhaps you ought to have a leaf from his book and he from yours every once in a while, eh?" She huffed once more and crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh, before I forget..." He turned around, bustling through his heaps of clutter, before turning once more and grinning widely. "Happy birthday."

In her hands was thrust a simple braided leather necklace with a buffed blue stone at the end. In the stone were inscribed tiny symbols, too small for her to decipher but apparent nonetheless. She placed the necklace around her neck loyally, as every gift from Gaius heralded some hidden, wonderful value. Looking up once more, she smiled brightly at her old friend.

"Thank you, Gaius," she said softly, resting her hand atop his old, withered palm.

"Don't thank me yet," he answered, his familiar chuckle returning. "It will bring you far more trouble and far more delight than it is worth." She frowned at him. Gaius often spoke in riddles, few of which she bothered to understand at first, but all of which made sense in the end. "Unless you're to attend your party again, princess, I advise you to bed. It's rather late and your father is sure to be drinking tonight, you see." She nodded solemnly, then bade her old mentor goodnight, proceeding up to her own tower.

But as she ascended the stairs, a burning occurred upon her bosom, a burning so intense that she winced several times with pain. As she reached her chambers, she disrobed, ignoring the offering hand of her servant Desdemona, and discovered that the beautiful necklace Gaius had given her was glowing a faint yellow, a far cry from its previous sapphirine color. She frowned at it, but shook her head, as the yellow faded back to blue, and simply dismissed the occurrence, drawing up her curtains and falling to a peaceful, dark sleep after her long first day at twenty years old.


	2. The Prince and His Jester

**Author's Note:** Nice long chapter for you all here, which I hope you all like. Of course, I won't know that you like it...unless you review, please. If you come and read I'd appreciate one review on whatever may be your favorite chapter. But just to let y'all know, this is Merlin's first appearance. :) I own nothing but that which you do not recognized. This chapter takes place during Season One, Episode One, _The Dragon's Call. _ Enjoy!

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><p><strong>The Prince and His Jester<strong>

The month passed without much event in the kingdom, but that a commoner had been caught practicing magic and was scheduled for execution at the end of the month. Abigail watched from her tower the monstrosity the people made of the poor man, whose name was apparently Thomas James Collins, shouting swears at him and hissing curses as he trailed to the executioner's stand. Squeamish as a little girl, she covered her eyes in horror as the executioner raised his axe, and choked down a gasp as she heard it come crashing down. Following the killing, a cry erupted from the crowd.

It was an old woman, the mother of the fallen sorcerer, disgracing Camelot and claiming vengeance upon King Uther–upon his son. Upon Arthur. In a whirl of dust, the hag disappeared, revealing the origin of dead Thomas's magic.

Abigail could take no more. She fled to the square, covering herself in the most peasanty shawls she could gather, in search of her brother. Frantically she bustled through the throngs of civilians, all gathered about in laughter and misery, cheering and crying with the day's events. Finally she found Arthur, entertaining a group of his friends and brandishing his armor like the prat she knew he was.

"Arthur," said she breathlessly, removing the shawls from her head. "Arthur, I need to talk to you."

"You shan't address your prince as such," retorted one of his cronies, obviously dull enough not to recognize the princess when he saw her, and moved as if to strike her with the back of his hand. Arthur stopped him, snatching his wrist.

"Yes, what is it, Abigail?" he asked impatiently, sheathing his sword once more. She pulled him away from his band, toward a secluded edge of the square.

"Arthur, he can't keep on with this. Father. He's making himself ever so many enemies of the witches and warlocks in Camelot. It's dangerous. He's going to get himself killed, or–or you killed, and..." She paused, drawing breath again. "...and it's just... not right. The way he treats these poor people, as if they could help being born the way they are." Arthur watched his sister for signs of frailty, ensuring she wouldn't faint or swoon, as silly young women do, and chuckled lightly. Her frown deepened. "What on Earth is there to laugh about?"

"Abigail, I wouldn't expect you to know the customs of the court. Father, of course, has his reasons for banning magic from Camelot. And so what if he makes himself a few enemies? It's not as if he hasn't evaded them before. It's better to keep the fools down than allow them to run rampant about the city, causing mayhem and chaos wherever they tread. They're freaks, every last one of them. Don't you remember that it was magic that killed our mother?" She huffed and drew away from him. "Abby, you're being silly. You'll figure it out someday."

"I'm not a child anymore, Arthur! I'm twenty years old, just the same as you. I suggest _you_ stop playing the fool as much as I play the woman. I'm as important as you, you'll see," she added in a mutter, throwing her shawls up again and sidestepping his jeering compeers, in a hasty decision to see Gaius again.

As she made her way up to the castle, the stone upon her neck burned again, but she ignored it, chalking up the pain to her inner anger, and Arthur's stupidity. She ran up the spiral staircase and beat Gaius' knocker thrice against the door, before he opened it, looking slightly askew, his hair ruffled and clothes crooked. Immediately Abby blushed, and took a step back.

"Is now a bad time?" she stammered, redirecting her eyes to her feet.

"No, no," said Gaius tiredly. "Come in, come in. I was just having a...chat with the son of an old friend." He opened the door wider, uncloaking the rest of his chamber. A few things were out of place, noted Abby. His bed, which had been on the opposite side of the room, had been thrust under the balcony, whose posts were now broken. Many of the books in the room had been scattered across the floor, and the chair in which she traditionally sat was occupied by a boy, near her and Arthur's age.

Even sitting, it was evident that he was tall. His skin was a light, porcelain-esque color, and smooth with youth. His hair, a dark, thick cloud upon his head, cloaked two large and prominent ears, which she thought seemed to suit him. His eyes were a soft cerulean, and as he began to smile, his teeth radiated a bright white, rather unusual for those of their region. He wore a tunic matching his eyes and a brilliant red scarf, which bounced slightly as he stood to greet her.

"Er, Abby, this is Merlin. Merlin, may I present Princ–"

"Abigail," she corrected quickly, taking a step closer. Her chest seemed to sear, but she noticed it not, as Merlin's smile grew just slightly. "Just Abigail. Pleased to meet you, Merlin."

"The pleasure's all mine...Abigail," he replied, with a bit of a bow, his grin shining dutifully for her. She stared at him a moment, smiling stupidly, then shook herself out of her reverie, turning to face Gaius once more.

"Gaius, may I ask how you encountered our dear friend...Merlin?" she inquired slowly, suppressing a slight laugh. His name felt odd rolling from her tongue–not bad, certainly not bad, but odd. It wasn't like many other names she'd heard before; then again, she hadn't heard many names, not having been outside the castle much. Gaius shot her a warning gaze before turning his attention again to the young man Merlin.

"I'm taking the young Merlin under my wing, dear, an apprenticeship, if you will. You'll be seeing much more of him about the castle, I believe, in the next few months." His smile settled, warmed, and then dissipated again into seriousness. "So I'm afraid that for the first time, Abigail, I'll have to ask as politely as I can for you to exit my premises. I'm sure you are needed elsewhere in the castle, particularly by...your father. Or...your brother." His smile returned yet again. Abigail learned quickly that it was quite time to curtsy, bow her head just a bit, and hesitantly shuffle backwards with a half-smile.

The last she caught as she left the room was a soft, "G-good meeting you, Abigail," from a voice rather like the young man Merlin's.

As Abby made her way through the corridors back toward the entrance hall, Guinevere, the kind young maid who tended mainly to Uther's ward Morgana, bustled past with her arms entirely full of washed laundry to dry. Seeing Abby, she began to say hello, but fumbled with her load, sending a few sopping heaps onto the floor.

"Oh, dear," said Abigail, bending down to pick up some of the dresses. "Are you alright? This is an awful lot of laundry to be carrying at once, dear." She didn't mean for it to be scolding, but Guinevere curtsied bashfully, stepping backward.

"My apologies, milady," she stammered, collecting the lot that Abigail hadn't yet reached. "I must be sure to wash them again, your majesty, twice as well as the last. To please Lady Morgana, of course." Abigail let loose a slight laugh, appearing perhaps a bit more airy, a bit lighter than her usual self, which was often set brooding, silent, full of angst and darkness. To see her today, as happy as she seemed, was an oddity. Guinevere was nonplussed as the princess collected just about half of the laundry.

"I shall escort you, Gwen–you don't mind being called Gwen, correct?" The serving girl shook her head quickly, proceeding alongside her lady. "So. Gwen. Are there many...nice...boys around the...around where you live?" Gwen glanced nervously at her, shifting the laundry between her arms.

"Milady, are you feeling quite alright? I can have Gaius called, if you need, or Desdemona, or Prince Arthur, or your father–"

"No, no, Gwen, I'm absolutely fine. Thank you. Just trying to make some conversation with my serving maid, you seem like just a lovely young lady, of course. So. A boy you have your eye on then?" In the next moment, Gwen's lovely exotic skin turned a certain shade of raspberry in her cheeks. "Aha," said Abby slowly, as if she'd made some grand discovery that could change the future of the kingdom, "So there is a boy."

"It's not–no, Your Majesty, only friends. Sorry to disappoint." It seemed very quick to Abby the time that they spent together going to Morgana's chambers. "Thanks very much, Your Highness, it's been...a pleasure." She curtsied.

"The pleasure is all mine, Gwen," replied Abigail, piling the laundry into its proper place, and gave a curtsy back. "Enjoy your day then."

"Princess," came a lilting, soothing voice from behind Morgana's shade, and there was the ward herself, as tall, beautiful, and graceful as ever. She collected her skirts, falling into a formal curtsy. "To what lovely occasion do I owe your visit, milady?"

"Simply assisting our friend Guinevere, Lady Morgana. Anyway. I must be off. It is late, and Father wishes I join him for the...celebrations tomorrow." Her voice faltered in the pause, and when it returned, it was weaker.

"I see," said Morgana almost sympathetically, then patted Abigail's shoulder, sending her on her way, back to her chambers for the night .

Abby dreaded every execution, no matter how evil the sorcery performed had to be. Some of the subjects screamed when they saw someone being beheaded, or hanged, or worst of all, burned at the stake. The hardest part, and at times the most interesting, the most sadistically fascinating, was the victim's face, just before they died. Many of those to be beheaded, or hanged, bore the look of resigned triumph, as if they'd tricked Camelot in some way, tricked Uther Pendragon himself, and now were prepared for death, assuming their comeuppance soon. But those who died on the stake, witches and warlocks burned for only the acts of highest treason, their faces were the most frightening, for they died with agony and suffering, and fear and pain, and disgust with what they'd seen their lives become. And to where their lives were going.

She hated to think of it, but she disagreed with her father on the the question of wizardry. There could be good and bad wizards, she believed, hoping that the good sorcerers outweighed the bad ones, and that the good triumphed against evil, but her father wouldn't have it, he never did. He was convinced that it was _magic_ that had killed Ygraine, their mother, but many women died in childbirth, it wasn't uncommon. Not saying that she didn't mind her mother dead–who wouldn't mind?–but that was just it, she was dead. And there was nothing she could do about it. She was dead and she would be dead until Abigail died, and then long after.

"Father," she said softly, upon reaching him, and took his arm when offered. "Is it true? That Lady Helen is coming to Camelot?" He nodded, a gentle smile on his face.

"Yes, my dear, it is. It will be a grand treat for us all, I hope, especially for you and your brother. How hard the two of you have been working recently, he in his training and you in your...studies." Though he loved his daughter, Uther knew not the real point of her endless indoor work. What did she have to study but the history of Camelot, of Camelot's customs? (Keeping in mind that both Arthur and Abigail had been taught Camelot backwards and forwards since they were old enough to study.)

She nodded simply, the faint traces of a smile rising to her lips.

"Thank you, Father. I have made it my priority to consider all of our country's political customs. I will become a master delegate. To please you, of course." She shifted slightly and straightened her back, holding her head high. Uther forced a smile, patting his daughter's back.

"A master delegate, you say," he repeated, clearing his throat, then stood a little taller himself. "My dear, I'm led to believe that the career of a master delegate is the position held only by a man. How do you suppose, as a very young lady, to become a master delegate in today's world?" A small smirk rose to her face, and she looked her father in the eye, ignoring the festivities about her celebrating the kingdom's eighteenth year clean of magic.

"Father, I fear you underestimate my skills. Arthur has studied Camelot's political customs too, he knows them well, yet I must believe I know them better. If _Arthur_ can be taken seriously by foreign diplomats, like so many of the princes and kings he's dealt with already, so may I. You cannot deny it, Father, they too have claimed that they find me...charming." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "I don't see why I wouldn't be a fitting politician, Father. I daresay I know our ways, our laws better than half the council."

"Then you will know why I cannot allow such foolishness, Abigail," he chided, taking her hand and maintaining the joyous face for the festivities. "I'm afraid I have no other choice. Legislation will take a very long time to pass a woman's law anyway, perhaps you will have more luck when your brother is king." Abigail was forced to bite her tongue time and again. The disappointment was always swallowed, but hardly accepted. This had to change soon, she believed. Had to.

She parted with her father to cross the market on her own, against his wishes, of course, as a woman was rarely ill-protected in Camelot's square. Least of all the elusive princess, second in line for Camelot's throne. Yet there she was alone, exploring all the vendors, purchasing the small things, little pendants with tiny carved dragons in them and a few tiny vials with liquid in the prettiest colors, sealed tight as never to be opened. Perhaps she'd have these as presents for the servants in the castle, as well as the rest of them, she supposed. A dainty bracelet for Morgana, a pin with the family crest for her father, and a sheath decoration for Arthur. A leather-bound book for Gaius, a pair of modest little brooches for each Desdemona and Guinevere, and...a royal red neckerchief for the new servant Merlin. She shoved her fineries into her bag, keeping them all out of sight.

As she passed the pillory, Abigail experienced a slight pain in her neck, something unpleasant but not quite disturbing. She noticed the fool of the day grinning a bright grin, teeth twinkling under distinct cheekbones and lovely blue eyes. She smiled herself and proceeded up the stairs on the small stage, standing at a fair distance from the line of fire of the villagers' rotten vegetables. Merlin met her gaze, letting his hands go limp in the pillory holes.

"Hullo, Abigail," he greeted her, giving a little wave.

"Good to see you again, Merlin," she returned, chuckling slightly. "May I ask what you've done to land yourself here?" He tried to shrug, managing the same goodnatured smile as before.

"Well, I noticed that a certain fellow was mistreating a few of his friends, tried to tell the prat off, then found out he was actually the prince of Camelot. Must have been fate, then, I suppose." Abigail's smile faltered just in the slightest, before it returned in full. Of course Arthur was being a prat. He always took advantage of that poor boy Dudley, making him the aim in target practice, cracking jokes at his expense (jokes that weren't that funny, by the way), and having him do all his work for him. Dudley had suffered enough stress over the years. It was right time that somebody finally told Arthur off.

"That sounds accurate for the prince, actually." Abigail scratched her head, giving him a genuine smile, beyond the courteous, bashful princess smiles that she gave her father and the court. "How much longer have you got in the pillory?" she asked casually, running a hand through her hair and crossing one foot over the other in what she hoped to be a friendly pose. She didn't really know, the happenings of the marketplace weren't quite her forte.

He wagged his head slightly from side to side, thinking on it. "Perhaps another few moments or minutes or so. Or at least until the villagers run out of rotten food. They said the guard would let me out when I'm...allowed out." The same goodnatured grin refused to leave his face, as he waved gently at a few passing children, who continued to throw their tomatoes at him, laughing richly. "They all have a load of fun with it, look at them."

"Oi!" said one of the guards, advancing onto the platform. Abigail pulled her hood back up over her head, ducking her head down quickly. The guard took no notice of her, but threw off the top of the device, freeing Merlin's head and hands "Off with you. Now." Abby noticed Merlin's immediate reaction to hug the guard, but backed away equally immediately, sparing the guard another friendly wave.

"You could use a wash," chuckled Abby, picking a piece of cabbage out of Merlin's hair. He looked up at the food in her hand, as if he had never seen it before.

"Oh. Yes, I...probably ought to. Get back to Gaius' chambers, that is. Will I see you again?" he asked almost too quickly, taking her hand and sending a light chill up her spine, a light and pleasant chill to contrast the somehow equally light and pleasant burning sensation radiating from the hand he'd touched all the way up to her mouth. Abby had no other choice or instinct but to smile and bite her lip timidly at his invitation.

"Yes. I think you will." _I hope you will_, she thought, as they parted ways once more.


End file.
